Sanctus Espiritus
by stardust-bones
Summary: You've toured the world a hundred times and seen everything it had to offer and all the secrets it never wanted to show. What could frighten you so? AdlerHolmes.


**AN: Probably my favorite chunk of dialogue that came out of my insomnia/Sherlock explosion, posted today because I needed to post something awesome. This is more an exploration of character than anything else. My London geography might be off, but let us pretend that I have everything in order. I have no idea what the impending threat is, but if I get enough motivation to continue, perhaps we'll find out? In other news, I absolutely love writing dialogue between these two!  
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**Disclaimers: I own nothing. Also, I haven't read 'A Scandal In Bohemia' in a really long time, so I don't have an accurate judge of Irene's character. When I write her, she tends to end up as this odd hybrid of her literary self, her Rachel McAdams version, and now her Lara Pulver version. But I think she's better that way.**

He finds the note tucked between the strings and the frets of his violin. He digs it out and stares at it for several ticking seconds. Thin paper, soft and worn. Its ragged edges and small stature meant it had been torn off of something larger, and based on the jagged, curving lines it had been ripped without any care for what would happen to the original document.

He holds it up to the light and watches the way the sun filters through the variegated texture.

_12 o'clock, Trafalgar Square._

_You know where and how to find me._

Its signature is a kiss from sunrise−red lipstick.

0~0~0~0~0

Irene stands at the end of the alley.

The wind catches on her hair, her clothes, and her smile. Her whole body is buffeted by the gale. It sweeps over her in impenetrable, relentless gusts. But she refuses to protect herself. She simply stands tall and strong, and prays that her posture will intimidate the wind to travel to other, less fortunate beings and leave her well enough alone.

And, she notes, with the gale emanates the weather− traces of storm are gathering on her skin, the lingering heat and humidity, the grey watercolor light from the clouds, the taste of moisture and mold clinging to her tongue. Sweat gathers on her back in beads, and the satin of her dress is starting to stick to her shoulder blades. She brushes a lock of dark, damp hair out of her face and wishes she'd brought a fan with her.

He weaves his way out of the crowd and stands at the other end of the alley.

He is, as usual, a pile of paradox. Neat hat, messy coat. Straight buttons and undone laces. Hair that teeters somewhere between organized and chaotic. Though it's far too warm outside, his coat falls past his knees and his scarf winds tight around his neck. Then there's that look on his face− it flits between solemn and rigid, undefended and optimistic. It drives her mad, the way she can't just crack him open and read him like the thousands of books that line the walls of his apartment, or tear into him like the paper she stole straight out of his desk. But it's a good sort of madness, a healthy sort of insanity.

Because when she looks at him, she gets a trace of what the rest of the world deals with when they look at her.

"Why did you ask to see me?" he calls down the narrow lane, and the words bounce off the walls to lodge in her hearing. He's confused, and naturally so. But answers are never her specialty.

She winks and steps her way towards him in miniature strides, with a sort of simple grace that belies the infinite grandeur lurking underneath. "Must I have a reason?"

He nods, an unyielding sort of nod, and she can feel the lecture and the thought process spilling out before he has the chance to think about what he's saying. But she's always enjoyed him that way.

"Everyone has a reason for everything," he declares, and not without experience. "Reason holds laws in place and provides order to the chaos of society. Reason is how the average person functions."

Her hands park themselves on her hips. She frowns, a playful sort of child's grimace. Mischievous seriousness. "Do I look like the average person to you?"

"No, no, you don't." He shakes his head and breathes in deep, a sigh trickling off his frame. "You know, you really ought to stop visiting that man down in West End. He's not good for you."

For a moment, all the fairy dust disappears and leaves the truth lying bold and shameless out in the open. "How the hell did you know I'm seeing someone in West End?"

Sherlock, in spite of himself, grins. "Language, my dear, language. Do watch the inflections of your tongue. I'm trying to hold on to what little civility I have left."

She steps so close to him that he feels every spastic pulse of her crooked heart as it beats out of time with his own. "Riddle me this- there is, in fact, a man in West End; how did you know I'm seeing him?"

He clasps his hands together. His face glows. "Alright." And then the list flies forth. "Your shoes are soaked and muddy, but it hasn't rained yet today, so the streets are still dry. Everywhere but the areas deemed for vegetation, which are still muddy from the rains a few days ago because the mud likes to gather in the gardens. You had to catch a ride from Bloomsbury to get here, as evidenced by the script on the ticket sticking out of your glove, and the particular creases in your skirt that can come only from sitting, which, judging from their severity, shows you've travelled a considerable amount of distance, also West End and Bloomsbury.

"As for your client, you smell like cologne and you've thrown yourself together in quite the hurry. Means he kept you busy up until the last minute. Judging by the lopsidedness of your hair and that particular smear of make-up on your cheek, I'd say you didn't even start pulling yourself together until after you got on the train, and probably without the aid of a mirror. And last, but certainly not least, you've forgotten to fasten one of the buttons on your dress. It's rather distracting, if I might say so."

She sighs and rolls her eyes at him, a smile tugging on her face, hands resolute on her sharp hips. "Do you ever stop thinking, Mister Holmes?"

He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs quietly. "Miss Adler, when I am dead my corpse will still be capable of thought. Now, you called me here, and here I am. What does the Lady have for me today?"

"For you? Nothing at all."

His head tilts the slightest bit on its axis. "But for someone else...?"

Her entire body is a denial made solid. "I haven't brought anything for anyone." She finally lowers her hands to let them relax by her sides.

He clucks his tongue like a mother hen. "Such a cryptic child you are. Had I not been a cold and emotionless old curmudgeon, I might even say you've only called me here just to say hello."

She raises her hands in the air, a gesture of surrender made weak and watery by the fire of rebellion burning in her irises. "Fine, you've caught me in the act. Hello, Sherlock. Isn't the weather just _marvelous_ this afternoon?"

He raises an eyebrow in mock astonishment. "When did you turn so sarcastic?" He leans closer to her and all his expression falls away. His brows furrow and his lips part as he studies her with all the dignity of a scholar and all the disregard of a schoolboy. "What is it that you really want, I wonder?"

In a matter of minutes he comes to several logical conclusions.

But for once in his life, none of them are correct.

As he watches her, she falls apart. It happens so suddenly that he can't even protest, can't even put a stop to it. She flings herself upon him. Her face buries itself in the crook of his neck, and her arms reach up to grasp his shoulders. For balance, he cites, because her legs shake so badly he doubts they'll be able to hold her up on their own. Her eyes scrunch tight and she trembles like a lost soul in need of a home.

"Hope," she whispers into his scarf, but he does not allow himself to move to hold her close. She is woman and she is weak, but he is a loveless man and now is not the time to falter and give into to those subtler passions, those emotional connections that destroy logic and override democracy.

He simply stands and lets her stand against him.

A raindrop tangles in his hair, so he pulls his umbrella out from the depths of his coat. It clicks open and hangs suspended in the air. It is built to accommodate just one person, so he positions it over her as best he can. Never mind if he gets soaked. Chivalry might never have been his forte, but he ought to try the notion out every once in a while. Wouldn't want it getting all rusty on him, would he?

This old, battered umbrella is the closest he's ever going to get to the concept of love.

"What sort of hope?" he asks gently to the mess that is her wild, dusky curls, and for a flash he prays her answer will be better than he knows it shall turn out to be.

He feels his shoulder growing wet, but he knows it's not because of the rain.

She swallows a shaky plea and tries to straighten out her voice into the sounds of something normal and controlled. "The hope that I'm going to make it out of this alive."

He shakes his head, fakes a smile, and tries to act like a man. "Come now, what problem could be so large that you would actually fear for your safety? I thought you were Miss Irene Adler, the nymph who flits in and out of palaces and prisons. You've toured the world a hundred times and seen everything it had to offer and all the secrets it never wanted to show. What could frighten you so?"

He watches the change drape back over her like a veil. She wipes the tears from her eyes, and stands back up. Gone is the vulnerability; returned is the masquerade, the second skin she wears so often that it has become her only identity. She manages a half-hearted smirk and gives him a sprightly and most unladylike shove. The ghost of a laugh hangs on her lips.

"I've never actually been to prison, you know."

He finds himself poking her forehead like some senseless adolescent in return. "That's not the point, my dear."

She steps away from him, eyes flickering between his gaze and downcast to her muddy shoes as the truth surfaces. It boils in her eyes, white−hot and painful. "Take me," she swallows down the emotions brewing in her throat, "to Baker Street."

He realizes that now, more than ever, is the time for a compatriotic gesture. "As you wish, Miss Adler." He places a hand on her shoulder and tugs her close under the umbrella.

Together, through the drizzling rain, they stumble down the street.


End file.
